He Used To Be A Hunter
by yllektra
Summary: Set in S4, back when Sam was still using his mojo and got progressively more and more corrupted by Ruby, Sam knew he was becoming something less and less human and he scared himself.


Crossposting my old fics from my lj community here for safekeeping! :)

**Title:** He Used To Be A Hunter  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything! :P  
**Characters/Pairings:** Sam, Dark!Sam , implied Sam/Ruby  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** General fic, set in S4, back when Sam was still using his mojo

**Summary:** _It comes easy.  
And he can't help thinking that maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it should be harder.  
Harder for a human. For someone who has a soul, or at least cares if he has one. But he doesn't know if he cares anymore. The only thing he knows is that he lives for that moment.  
The exact minute another fight will take place and another demon will be brought up against him and he will be no match for him._.  
-**Author's Notes:**I just adore Sammy's mojo scenes. It certainly must take a lot of his sanity to know he has this power, rendering him a better hunter, a warrior but definitely less human...  
_~ English is not my native language so excuse any crappiness and/or mistakes!_  
**Lyrics:** Genocide By Ra

* * *

_Cold as steel underneath my broken skin  
I'm bleeding  
Forced to feel  
Devastation murder genocide_

**HE USED TO BE A HUNTER - [1/1]**

He gets lost in the moment.

The moment at which his conscious minds shuts down.

Or maybe it is not his mind what shuts down, but his conscience.

The moment at which everything is black and white at the same time, but it doesn't get gray. It is like a moment frozen in time, suspended in air and space, seemingly devoid of weight, of gravity or even true color.

… Strange.

It should become gray or at least get blacker.

Because it is dark.

Because it is scary. Because it is addictive like heroin, what is happening to him.

The way he can feel his gut clench and the tension roll and slide on his body, his every part, like a snake moving, circling around him.

He can sense it when it happens.

It is not only the sight of the demon that gets the hunger going.

He can sense it because his hands are twitching.

His fingers move as if they have a life of their own.

Ten little soldiers ready to go to war.

Ready to incapacitate, to shoot, to kill, to maim and then let the blood drip off them.

The nectar of victory…

And then his eyelids throb and his mouth starts making involuntary movements, but it is not just from the strain, because there's hardly any strain anymore.

It comes easier. It comes easy.

And he can't help thinking that maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it should be harder.

Harder for a human. For someone who has a soul, or at least cares if he has one.

He doesn't know if he cares anymore.

The only thing he knows is that he lives for that moment. The exact minute another fight will take place and another demon will be brought up against him and he will win.

He is the perfect warrior.

So what if he wasn't exactly forged in light? What if he wasn't forged in nobility?

He gets the job done. Faster and better than everyone.

But still, he is shunned. Still, he is frowned upon by the angels.

Is it his fault he has demon blood in him?

Is it his fault he enjoys it?

Is it his fault that he is stronger because of it?

_{ My reflection sometimes reminds me  
In their image I was born  
__Technically I'm enhanced they tell me  
From their minds my existence torn  
They don't know all the hate I'm feeling  
They don't see how it breeds inside  
I'm afraid of the walls around me  
I'm afraid but I cannot hide}_

What if he puts it to good use?

What if he has killed and exorcised more demons than anyone ever thought possible?

Shouldn't that count for something? Shouldn't he get sympathy, support, respect?

Because if he doesn't do what he is doing, who will?

He has lived his whole life thinking that there are demons and angels and that the balance and the truth lies somewhere in between darkness and light.

A light that is hard to distinguish and is not as bright as most stories let show.

This mission isn't a noble cause, it is a war.

Simple as that and nothing anyone ever says can make it appear less ruthless and dehumanizing.

Then again he shouldn't worry about the latter.

Uriel already didn't consider him a human, let alone one of the good guys.

And sometimes Sam can't help but think that maybe it's true.

It should be hard. It should be unbearable, painful, gut-wrenching. Only it isn't.

It gets easier every time. Him against the demons.

Now he doesn't even need to secure them in a devil's trap.

He can perform the exorcism on the spot, only he isn't sure which one is going down under now, the demon or him?

And is it really an exorcism? Is it a battle won just like that, or is it a game?

Is it a hobby till the serious stuff starts?

Sam covers his face with his hands and exhales.

When did everything become about the challenge?

When did the cause stop having a meaning?

Is it ok that now it's all about the thrill?

The way he can feel another existence, black and malicious, its essence shrunk into nothingness, into nothing more than a knot within his palm?

He watches the demon along with the "meat" burn down in flames, the body charred to its bare bones and then to ashes and he keeps calling the body "meat".

And it doesn't even make him shiver.

Instead he feels glorious, proud and the feelings of remorse he once had are gone.

It didn't use to be called "meat'.

It was the "carrier", the "vessel" and he or she should remain unharmed.

He or she should stay unharmed, but now he doesn't even see them as a "he" or a "she".

They are not even persons anymore, they are objectives, they are hostiles like in a game you play on the computer.

They are not real persons, they don't have families…

_Only sometimes they do and sometimes, not often, and it gets less and less frequent, Sam is reminded of his own family and of how many times it was pulled apart, like a root coming undone, breaking free of its soil 'prison', only to realize that it wasn't really a prison but what sustained it, what gave it nourishment and support and now it's left to wither and rot._

He used to blame Ruby. She made it appear appealing, important, necessary.

She told him it was urgent.

It was his duty to live up to his potentials since he had them.

He had a duty to himself and to others.

He could save them. All.

If he only trained hard enough.

_{ There's a reason that I met you  
It's to show you how to die  
Simplify my wrong connection  
Disconnect me where I lie  
There is conflict all around us  
There is conflict in my soul  
Put an end to what's beginning  
To make me want to play my role}_

And she was there to kiss him when he got it right, to frown when he didn't. To screw and slap both with the same intensity and frequency.

And then she would bare herself.

She would allow him to see the black in her eyes and she would open up her arms to him, calling for him.

And he would nestle there, within her embrace, an embrace that was beginning to feel more and more limited.

_He sadly realized her embrace was small.  
_

_It was beginning to feel too small for him now.  
_

_And he wasn't sure what it meant, for him, for her, for the world._

Was it a transformation? Was it a change that was supposed to happen?

Was it all a part of the training or was it him getting carried away?

Of course, he was overwhelmed at first. It was overwhelming.

The way the demons rolled their eyes, the way they mocked him with their words and laughs when he couldn't exile them to hell again.

And it made him persevere, not give up but keep working it, till he was sure he could do it right, the proper way.

The way that would mean he was ready.

He could take Ruby right from the start. And she knew it.

He could exorcise her or even kill her and that made her look vulnerable.

Like she had placed her trust upon his broad frame having complete confidence and faith in him and it made a difference at first.

Knowing you can die at any time but sticking around, meant that at least SHE believed he was capable of it. Remaining who he was at heart. Good and honest and well-intentioned.

Using his power wisely and effectively, without getting addicted to what this kind of power felt like.

The complete and utter control over mind and matter and sometimes even soul.

But where does the soul go when you play with matter?

Where does it hide when everything in the body twists out of shape and spins out of control?

Where were these vessels he had sacrificed now?

Would they ever come back to haunt him?

A year ago he would feel sorry and guilty for making a decision like that.

Deciding on the fate of a person.

Who gets to live and who gets to have their body and soul destroyed, sent into oblivion on a one-way ticket...

And who's to say that the vessels demons ride on are not good, devout people?

Who gets to decide that their lives aren't worth saving in the big frame of things?

Sacrifice a few to save thousands? And is it about quantity or quality?

Are angels only to interfere and save the people who already believe?

The select few who are already on the path of God?

The first time he was forced to kill the demon along with its "meat", it felt surreal. Like he wasn't even inside his own body.

It felt like watching it from somewhere far far away.

It was wise to distance himself from it.

There was no time for charity and cautiousness.

Quick action was needed. And he did it.

_His hand clenched into a tight fist, he did it and he expected to feel hot blood on his lip, drip from his nose, something to let him know that this was real, that it was painful and hurtful and just wrong and against his nature – a body isn't supposed to bleed, not normally and he wasn't supposed to kill humans - but he felt nothing, tasted nothing._

No blood, no headache, no ringing in his ears. And more importantly, no remorse.

It was a day later when he found himself on the internet browsing pages on his laptop that he realized he was doing it.

Right there on online news … The man he fried was missing.

His name was Patrick Fullster, a schoolteacher and the picture of him and his wife was nice. Endearing even. He had a family, he had a life and somewhere out there he would be missed.

Missing and missed and this time it was Sam's fault.

He wanted to care, he wanted to feel sorry. He needed to care, but he couldn't.

It meant nothing to him, that schoolteacher meant nothing and it was only for a minute that Sam felt remorseful for the mere fact that he was the one who had made the man disappear.

It was crazy, but somehow after everything he had been through, he concluded that he deserved it.

He deserved not to care anymore.

After suffering from the pain of losing his mother and his father and his brother, somehow the world owed him, God owed him.

After all, He was the one who had allowed this to happen.

Three times already and so if Sam had to sacrifice a few men to get ready for the war, he might as well do it, without hesitation.

"_He was a schoolteacher, you know"_ he had told Ruby. Casually, so casually that she didn't immediately understand what he was referring to.

"_Who was?" _she had asked.

"_The vessel last night"_.  
She had said nothing but continued to enjoy her fries. Her eyes never leaving the plate.

He knew she was avoiding him.

"_And now he is dead because of me"_ he stated trying to elicit a response out of her.

"_Don't fool yourself, Sam. He was dead already, he just didn't know it yet"_ she made it sound so easy, so inconsequential.

"_How can you say that?"_ he had countered, but desperately clinging to her faith, wanting to hear her say it, rationalize it and excuse it, because he couldn't.

"_I am dead, too"_ she had mocked, rolling her eyes.

And that was when Sam knew she just wanted to avoid the conversation.

"_You are not dead, Ruby. Not really! You can have your fries. You can touch, you can __fuck__"_ he had told her lowering his voice.

"_Trust me, Sam, I am dead and the only times that I feel alive is when I am with you"  
_

_"When is it for you? When do you feel alive?"_

Ruby probably didn't know how hard that question really was, when she had asked it.

He had just blinked, an awkward grin stretching across his face like shame.

He wanted to be able to name it, to say it, verbalize it.

He wanted to be able to say "_When I am with Dean, when I am with you, when I am free of this whole thing"_ but it wouldn't be the truth.

And he would never be able to convince himself, so there was no way he could convince her.

Instead he remained silent, when all he wanted to mouth back was:

"_When I am hunting, when I'm exorcising, when I feel the demon's unadulterated power brush up against mine, but being no match for it"_.

But he would never say it and he would continue to look into her eyes, the eyes and the face he had grown accustomed to and fond of and he would take what she was willing to give for as long as she would give it.

Because the thirst, the hunger, the yearning inside of him could not be quenched or satisfied or soothed.

It would get worse and worse till everything else ceased to exist.

"_Don't worry, Sam. Everyone knows you are one of the good guys"_ she had laughed, patting him on the back before crushing his lips with hers.

"In years to come, when you grow old after a long, fulfilling life, the stone on your tomb will write: _He Was A Hunter. He saved the world a lot"_ Ruby's tempting voice reached his ears.

But he couldn't get it out of his head (and the more he thought about it the more accurate it sounded and it worried him that it wasn't as scary as he had initially hoped for),that what they would say of Sam Winchester would be:

"_He used to be a hunter, you know? And then he became the End"_

~ Fin ~


End file.
